


You Can Run

by AnonymousPuzzler



Category: Layton Brothers: Mystery Room, Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: (aka nothing worse than your average Mystery Room case), Bill Hawks Faces The Music (TM), Bill Hawks Perish Challenge 2k19, Canon-Typical Violence, Especially between the end of unwound future and start of lbmr, Gen, Layton Brothers Mystery Room spoilers, Lots of headcanons & tying together of plot threads, Post-Unwound Future, Unwound Future Spoilers, don't let the character death thing scare you too much it's just The Jerk(TM), political corruption, reference to canon character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18796057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPuzzler/pseuds/AnonymousPuzzler
Summary: But not forever.





	You Can Run

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't for the life of me tell you where this fic came from, but boy howdy, it. It sure did happen and I sure wrote it. (That said, it did end up being really interesting to write, so I hope it's even marginally as interesting to read.)
> 
> Oh, and if you didn't guess already from the characters and tags, this fanfic has MAJOR spoilers for Unwound Future (like, every major twist and plot point) and for Layton Brothers Mystery Room (namely the big endgame twists from the very end of case 9). Turn back now if you don't want the big twists from those games!!
> 
> Also, big thanks to my mystery inc bros for the enthusiasm and support over this fic. Y'all know who you are. <3

The offer is too good to refuse, but that doesn’t mean he can’t finesse the details some.

“The machine is still a very early prototype, with all that implies,” he explains coolly, refusing to relinquish any power in this conversation. After all, they need him just as much, if not _more_ , than he needs them. “It will hardly be production-ready in terms of materials and energy consumption. And of course, there’s the obvious matter of safety. Confident as I am in the machine, such an early prototype will inevitably carry greater risks than a version further down the development pipeline.”

“We assure you, Mr. Hawks, we’re well aware of these factors,” replies the young upstart that’s apparently been put in charge of negotiating with him. “Our company’s interest is in the technology itself, not a perfectly finalized product. All you have to do is prove the functionality of the, well, main selling point, so to speak, and our R&D team will take it off your hands from there.”

He can’t help but glower, however subtly. The young man is aggressively slick, fitted suit and sculpted hair, an impossibly fake smile plastered on his face, as it has been for the entirety of their conversation. Bill instinctively, viscerally hates him.

“Additional insurance,” he says, decisively.

The upstart’s grin falters momentarily. “Pardon?”

“Given the inherent risks of testing such a large-scale prototype, I’ll require additional insurance before I’m willing to test,” he elaborates. “We require a human test subject in order to properly confirm a temporal leap occurred, as opposed to simply momentary displacement in the time-space stream. Thus, I require insurance not just to financially account for any risk to the subject, but to remove me from liability as well. Our lab resides in rented space; same issue, same requirements. The lab is flanked on both sides by residential areas; likewise. You claim you understand the implications of running an early prototype, so I expect you are also aware of and willing to cover all that implies.”

The young man is still grinning, but it’s taken on a pained kind of edge, and his eyes have gone dark and bitter. “Mr. Hawks, surely _you_ understand the financial implications of such a request,” he laughs pointedly. “For us to fulfill all these demands would be to effectively double our - already _highly_ generous - offer. You couldn’t possibly expect us to be able to do that, can you?”

“For this kind of technology? If you don’t do it, sir, someone else _certainly_ will. My terms stand. Either you agree to them, and I accept your kind offer, or you do not, and I find someone else to invest in this project.”

He folds his arms, reveling in the standstill of silence. The upstart’s smile is gone.

“Let me make some calls,” he finally says, heavily, standing from the table.

Bill cracks a smirk the moment his back is turned.

 

~

 

Allen had insisted it wasn’t ready, and he was probably right. But the offer was too good to refuse, and his contract was ironclad in absolving him of responsibility if something _did_ go wrong, so honestly, what did he care?

And so when Allen _was_ proven right, and things did go very, _very_ wrong, his immediate first concern was that the crucial functionality hadn’t worked, and he was thus out an absurd amount of money.

But then the autopsy proved fruitful. Most obviously and tellingly, Ms. Foley had been found among the rubble in completely different attire than when the test began. Items she’d had on her person at the start of the test, namely a pocket watch to help measure her temporal displacement, had gone missing without a trace. There was evidence of growth in her hair and fingernails, and soil samples on the soles of her shoes that could not be traced back to anywhere even in the general vicinity of the lab.

It was about as conclusive as proof could get. He only regretted that Ms. Foley hadn’t the decency to live long enough to provide proper testimony regarding her successful time-leap.

He meets with the upstart again some two weeks after the test, enough time for them to have begun cleaning up the resulting mess per his careful contract. The young man is decidedly _not_ smiling this time, which he takes something of a sick pride in.

“All evidence points to the subject being successfully temporally transported,” he says matter-of-factly, placing the file full of evidence sharply in the upstart’s palm. “A resounding success, all things considered.”

“You must be joking,” the young man spits, not even bothering with pleasantries. “This was an unmitigated disaster. Ten people are bloody _dead,_ Mr. Hawks.”

“Ah, but you knew the risks going in,” he reminds him, unrepentant. “I told you quite clearly that there were inherent risks in testing such an early prototype. Everything that was affected in the test, I informed you outright that they were liable to be caught up in a worst-case scenario, and required you to insure them accordingly. And in the end, all you asked of me was a device which could successfully perform time travel, and that—” He taps the file in the man’s hand for emphasis— “I have done. You’ve got what you wanted, and I expect to be compensated per our agreement.”

The upstart practically sputters. “You’re mad,” he finally chokes out. “Do you not understand the situation?! No matter how much money you have, you’re ruined the moment the press gets word of this.”

“Then it’s to your own benefit to keep that from happening, isn’t it?” He retorts. “After all, if blame is leveled at me for the incident, I’ll simply say that investors were pushing me to test and ignoring the stated risks. The blow to your company would _far_ exceed that to my personal reputation.”

The tension in the silence following is palpable, thick enough that even the sharpest knife couldn’t make a dent in it. He stands fast irregardless, unflinching. He’d always been good at this; at being the man who refused to budge, refused to be cowed into submission, and in doing so forced lesser men to kowtow to him.

Which is exactly what happens, the upstart finally averting his gaze with a grimace. _“Fine,”_ he hisses. “We’ll get our people on it.”

“That you will,” he nods, without even a hint of thanks. As he stands up to leave, he throws one last glance at the young man over his shoulder. “And I’ll expect my payment shortly. Don’t make me have to nag you for it.”

The upstart’s hands ball into tight fists, but he says nothing more.

 

~

 

The reporting is kept quiet, a few scant news stories discussing the accident and nothing more. His name is left carefully out of it throughout. The promised funds appear in his account a few days after the meeting, and in no time at all, a few well-placed investments have him poised to triple his earnings before the year is out. He’s already left the realm of science behind - engineering had always been a stepping stone regardless, a way to earn himself suitable funds straight out of university - and moved on to his true passion of politics with notable success.

Really, things couldn’t be better.

Which makes this new hiccup all the more jarring.

He doesn’t remember the man’s name, doesn’t especially care, but he does recognize him vaguely. He’s got a much more dandy-esque look to him now, complete with top hat and pea coat, but he remembers Ms. Foley bringing him by the lab a couple years back. Some sort of… geologist, or human studies professor, or something of that kind. No one important, no one to concern himself with.

Except now he’s going around asking questions.

He cannot allow people to start asking questions.

He hasn’t been in contact with his original investors since just after the test, but he calls them up now. His contract still stands, after all, as does his threat. This man may be just an academic poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, yes, but it’s still unwanted attention. If he manages to dig something up and tell someone, it could easily spiral out into a PR nightmare.

“I want him taken care of,” he demands curtly. On the other end of the phone line, there’s a long silence, then a heavy sigh and the sound of papers rustling.

 _“Mr. Hawks,”_ says the young upstart, though sounding much less young and much less of an upstart than the last time they spoke. _“You can’t possibly expect us remain at your beck and call to cover things up for you.”_

“You say, as if the information wouldn’t destroy your business as well,” he points out in sharp reply. “Either take care of it, for both our sakes, or direct me to someone else who will.”

There’s another lengthy pause. _“...what I’m about to tell you is to be kept quiet,”_ the upstart says at last, voice low and conspiring. _“We have some… shall we say,_ enforcers _that have long been assisting our company. Their prices are fair, and discretion is their utmost priority. I’ll give you their contact information if you’ll simply stop calling on us.”_

“That depends on whether or not they prove effective,” he responds, silently filing away this information as further blackmail, just in case the upstart relocates his spine and gets any bright ideas. “But I will gladly look into them.”

The _enforcers,_ he extrapolates the first time they speak, appear to be little more than a gang of thugs. But the upstart is quite right about discretion - no face-to-face meetings and no names, they insist, so neither of them can identify and out the other; all payment to be wired rather than handed off in-person; drop-off addresses for any necessary goods to be provided without context or question. By the end of their conversation, he’s quite confident they’ll prove valuable allies as his career continues to advance.

On Monday morning, just as he asked, there’s a neatly packaged bundle of torn-out notes under his morning paper, which itself has been helpfully bookmarked to a particular article. _PROF. HERSHEL LAYTON, 27, HOSPITALIZED,_ the headline reads. _Young academic in critical condition after savage beating._

He nods to himself, satisfied, reading over the details as he sips his tea, the bundle of notes and interviews and newspaper clippings and deductions already quietly burning away in the fire. With any luck, the man will simply have the good sense to pass away quietly in the hospital. But even if, by some miracle, he lives, he’d have to be frightfully stupid not to have thoroughly learned his lesson.

 

~

 

His ascent up the political ladder in the years following is frightfully smooth. Thus far, he’s been elected to every office for which he’s run, often with little significant opposition. Early analysis indicates he’s a shoo-in as the next Prime Minister, a position he has naturally long-coveted.

He’d been married, a few years back now, to Caroline, the president of some charity group or another. He wouldn’t say theirs was a particularly passionate romance, not by any means, but she was tolerable and they had mutual benefit to gain from the marriage - she had a taste for the finer things in life, and he knew voters preferred a man in a well-kept nuclear family. Children had been a step too much for the facade, but he’d instead bloviated some nonsense about treating Caroline’s charity cases as if they were their children, and the public had gladly eaten that up.

When the time came for the election, he made certain, as always, that his history as a scientist and engineer was carefully kept quiet.

Nothing came up, and in no time at all, he was met with the victory he’d so expected.

 

~

 

_Dearest Mr. and Mrs. Prime Minister Bill Hawks,_

_You are cordially invited to the public unveiling and demonstration of Dr. Alain Stahngun’s groundbreaking research into temporal manipulation - in layman’s terms, the historic unveiling of functional time travel._

_The event will be held at 1 p.m. on November 22nd to an esteemed crowd of select guests from the press, academia, and public office. Food and drink will be provided prior to the presentation, starting at 12 p.m._

_We look forward to seeing you there._

 

~

 

“I just have some sort of awful feeling about this whole affair,” Caroline had complained when they agreed to go. At the time, he’d thought her daft, but in retrospect, it seemed an eerie premonition which he ought to have heeded. He feels an odd sense of deja vu speaking with Dr. Stahngun, but doesn’t place it until it’s too late, until he’s been goaded into the alleged time machine, until the whole blasted contraption is rumbling around him in a way that reminds him all too much of that day ten years ago—

And that’s when he remembers where he knows “Stahngun” from. Then, in an instant, the machine explodes around him in a mess of steam and debris, and heavy arms wrap around his neck, an awful-smelling cloth pressed over his face till he falls unconscious.

He awakes, disoriented, in the dark isolation of a cell, no doors or windows in sight to so much as hint at where they might be or what time it is. He clings to the bars and bellows, demands the culprit show themselves, tries to goad that _bastard_ Allen into showing his cowardly face, but no one answers. No one so much as approaches the cell.

He’s not sure how much time passes - it feels like days, or maybe even weeks, but as far as he knows it could have been mere hours. Every so often, a tiny panel will open up in one of the walls and a plate of food will be pushed out, and he’ll eat it if only because he knows full well the alternative is to starve to death in imprisonment.

Then, shortly after one such meal, the room starts to go fuzzy and he finds himself tipping over onto the cot. The next thing he knows, he’s tied up someplace else. And again, and again, the hours (or days, or weeks) eaten away in bouts of unconsciousness and transport and bondage.

The last time he wakes, it’s different. The ground is rumbling, shifting beneath him, there’s the distant sound of cannon fire, and he finds himself being lifted carefully out of confinement rather than shoved roughly into some new form of captivity.

And then his eyes focus, and he looks up, and his heart stops.

The man looks much less a dandy than he once did, though he still wears the silk top hat, but he’s still immediately recognizable. But even more importantly, on his other side is a veritable ghost - the long, pale face, the thin waves of ginger hair, the all-too-familiar pale-blue jacket and brown leggings that had been bloodied and singed when he last saw them.

He looks back over his shoulder to where he’d been sitting, bound and mostly unconscious, not moments prior. In his place, wired to complex machinery and ticking steadily, is the lost pocket watch from ten fateful years ago.

He stumbles, and the woman he killed helps to right him, all but carrying him from the room.

 

~

 

Things should have been better, now. He’s back at 10 Downing Street where he rightly belongs, and the sick brat who’d kidnapped him had been arrested, and cleanup was already well underway in the parts of London his rampage had affected. He’d lugged his way through innumerous eulogies, accepted many worthless sympathies regarding what he’d been through. He’d sent his enforcers to keep watch on that dandy professor and his lot, making sure they weren’t spreading any damaging rumors, but most especially to verify that _the ghost_ was not still around.

(She wasn’t, which, much as he wasn’t surprised - she’d been wearing exactly what she died in; he would have been stunned if the temporal jump _hadn’t_ taken her back that very evening - was a certain relief.)

Things should have been better. They should have. But ever since he’d seen that damned specter of a woman, a cold feeling of dread had made itself at home in his gut, and it wasn’t going away.

The day of Clive Dove’s hearing arrives. Given the sheer destructive scale of his crimes, the lead-up to the court date had been all abuzz in the public and press, and the hearing itself was to be broadcast live. And though a bitter, vindictive part of him was quite pleased - it meant only good things for him if the criminal was thoroughly raked over the coals in the public eye - that heavy dread had not settled, and in fact had grown worse as the date approached.

When the hearing begins, Dove approaches the stand looking eerily calm, not a lick like the manic creature who had ravaged London. The judge lists off a lengthy collection of charges: an absurd number of murder counts, several of kidnapping, destruction of property, terrorist activity, illegal and unethical business practices, unethical experimentation… the list goes on. The boy listens without flinching, barely reacting, and when the charges are all leveled, he looks the judge dead in the eyes and pleads guilty without so much as a quiver in his voice.

He can’t help but grimace at the whole affair. The boy will be imprisoned, certainly, justice is being doled out, but - but the whole thing feels _unsatisfactory,_ what with him being so level-headed about the affair, and he can’t help but worry that the public will be more willing to sympathize with the boy now. He can’t afford that.

And then Dove asks to speak before he’s sentenced.

 _“Absolutely not,”_ Bill hisses, as if the judge can hear him through the television screen. But he can’t, and Dove is allowed to proceed.

“I won’t for a moment pretend to be worthy of sympathy,” Dove begins, level and clear; Bill would have to admit to his abilities as an orator if he didn’t hate the child so _damned_ much. “The things I have done are despicable, and innocent people are dead because of my actions. I’ll not ask your forgiveness. I’m not worthy of it. And I know this well, because being in your shoes was exactly what drove me to do the things I did.”

A palpable silence covers the courtroom, not even the flash of a press camera or the scratch of a reporter’s pen interrupting it. Bill feels, for a fleeting moment, as if he cannot breathe.

“Ten years ago, a horrible accident occurred in my childhood neighborhood,” Dove continues. “A team of scientists had rented one of the buildings to house their projects, and a test run went terribly wrong. Their prototype exploded, collapsed much of the building as well as several adjacent residences, and started a massive fire. I had been safely down the street, visiting a friend after school. My parents—” He swallows, heavily, voice momentarily breaking, the first time it has in the entire hearing. “...My parents were not so lucky. They died, and so did eight other people.

“The incident was barely reported on. No arrests were ever made. I was lucky enough to be adopted, to be offered a second chance at a normal life, but… but the thought of my parents having been killed, without the barest hint of justice for their death, simply consumed me. I can only imagine how it might have been for the loved ones of the other eight, who might not have been so lucky as I, to have an opportunity to start a whole new life.

“And that is the reason I wanted to tell you all this - not to excuse my actions, nor garner sympathy for myself, which, as I stated, I know full well I have not earned. I have done wrong, and I will serve time accordingly. I do not expect to ever see life outside a prison cell from this day forward. It is my dearest hope that seeing me rightfully punished will provide some small measure of hope, of closure, for those who have suffered most from my actions. But I ask you to remember the other people like myself, who lost a part of their hearts that day ten years ago, and saw no such justice. Who had to bury the people they loved so dearly while the people responsible went unpunished.”

He looks up, gaze cold and pained and determined, and Bill’s blood utterly _boils._

“Who were forced to watch a man with blood on his hands be elected to high office.”

The courtroom erupts into a bluster of activity, the judge shouting in vain for order, and Bill switches the television off rather than listen further. He will learn later that Dove was, indeed, sentenced to life imprisonment, but the damage - oh, the damage is already done.

Still, he thinks, once he’s had time to cool his head. Still, the boy is a criminal, a _madman._ He’s hardly a trustworthy source of information, and he’s already made steps to quietly, subtly emphasize his state of general mental unrest to the public and press. The implications of his speech are far from harmless, but easy to take with a grain of salt.

But then it keeps getting worse.

Allen’s hearing occurs a week after Dove’s, to significantly less overwhelming fanfare - Dove had been the “main event”, so to speak, the central perpetrator of the attacks, Allen and the rest mere accomplices of varying culpability. (A number of the scientists had already been called to court and dismissed with minimal to no charges, given their contributions to the mobile fortress had been under false pretenses and significant duress rather than of their own free will.) Allen is questioned at great length in regards to how much he knew, and though he denies knowledge of the fortress project in any capacity, he confesses to a great deal of charges - the kidnappings, most notably, the active misleading of the scientists, and so on.

And then, when asked why he would agree to assist in such crimes, Allen corroborates Dove’s sob story. “I was working at the Dimensional Research Institute when the tragedy occured,” he says, voice far heavier and more emotionally taut than Dove’s clear, assured speech. “I was of the belief that our prototype was not ready for testing, and my research partner went forward with it without my approval or presence. Ten people - our own young assistant among them - died because of his actions, and yet he went unpunished. I was as seduced by the idea of revenge as young Mr. Dove, and so I agreed to assist him. My one regret was that I allowed myself to be blinded in regards to the sheer scope of his chosen revenge. I plead guilty to all charges leveled towards me, your honor.”

Allen is sentenced to forty years with possibility of parole, which, though not a life sentence, might as well have been one given his age and apparent health. (He’d always been a bit on the sickly-looking side, tired eyes and lanky frame and all, but now he looked downright _withered.)_ But it’s _not enough,_ Bill still feels, rage coursing through his veins. Not after all he’d done, and most _especially_ not after dragging his reputation through the mud with him as he goes down.

The public talks, but for a while that’s all there is, and then—

“You’ll want to see this, sir,” one of his assistants says in a rush, scrambling to turn on the television midway through a meeting. Bill almost chastises him for the interruption, but then he sees what’s on screen and the words die in his throat.

Two convicted criminals insinuating things against him, that’s one thing. But now, Professor Hershel Layton - respected archaeologist, repeated mystery-solver, and recent hero of London - is on television speaking to the press.

“Though it by no means erases the harm they have done to the people of London, it must be acknowledged that Dimitri and Clive are victims as well,” he says, with an eloquence that seems utterly impossible, given the primary job of the man speaking is to sit in a room looking at rocks all day. “And unlike the victims of this most recent attack, they have not, and likely never will, see justice for the suffering they have endured. I do not think it is a stretch to believe there’s something fundamentally wrong with that.”

“Professor,” says another reporter, to whom the man turns politely to acknowledge. “Forgive me for saying so, but you seem awfully nonchalant about accepting the assertions of convicted criminals.”

“I accept their assertions because they are the truth,” he replies simply, and before anyone can question further, adds, “I was there the very day of which they speak. The young assistant Dimitri acknowledged in his testimony was my partner at the time, and in my rush to the scene to find out what had happened to her, I came across young Clive and restrained him from running into the fires after his parents. I can confirm quite readily that the reporting on the tragedy was minimal, and in fact, when I attempted to investigate further myself, my research was stolen in the midst of a savage beating that nearly left me dead. The medical records and reports of that incident still very much exist, as I recently confirmed, if you feel the need to verify the authenticity of my claim.”

Bill’s stomach plunges through the floor, and the cold silence of the room is momentarily broken by the sharp _crack_ of a cheap plastic pen splintering in his grip. He should have covered up the reports of the attack, he realizes all too belatedly. Should have had his goons destroy the medical records. There’s no way he’ll be able to erase either now without their disappearance looking suspicious.

“But Mr. Layton,” another reporter shouts. “Both Allen and Dove’s testimonies have attempted to implicate, of all people—”

“I am not here today to level accusations,” Layton interrupts calmly, gently. “That is not my place. My only goal is to do what I can to verify a truth that has been subject to doubt.”

The crowd of press murmurs quietly amongst themselves, and for a moment it looks like that will be all, that this will be the worst of the damage. (And it _is_ damaging, more so than anything else thus far, but with any luck he can instigate some degree of smear campaign against that god-awful dandy professor and thus invalidate his words of support.) But then a hand lurches up and drags down one of the reporters’ microphones, and that’s when Bill realizes that this whole time, there’s been a little boy not older than ten lingering by the dandy’s side, with messy burgundy hair and a nose that seems to take up half his face.

“I think it’s rotten that you’ve all let that man get away with all the awful things he did, just because he’s important now,” the child snaps into the microphone, tone much too sharp and determined for a boy his size and age. “And I think he’s a bloody right coward for hiding all these years.”

 _“Alfendi,”_ the professor chides, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and pulling him back from the microphone. “I do apologize,” he says to the reporter, looking abashed for the first time in the interview. “My boy here lost family in the recent attacks. I doubt you can blame him for being passionate on the topic of justice.”

“I’m gonna be a cop when I get bigger,” the child declares, still audible despite Layton drawing him back. “And when I do, I’m not going to care _how_ rich or famous or important someone is. If they’ve broken the law, I’ll crack the case and put them in jail where they belong all the same.”

“A noble goal,” Layton says, almost too quiet to be heard, more to the boy than to the public. And then, _then,_ before Bill can even register he’s calmly delivering the killing blow, that damned dandy turns back to the reporters with a calm smile and says, “I rather think Alfendi’s wise beyond his years. I believe our society would be better off were we more willing to judge people by their actions, rather than excusing them based on position and class.”

Press stunned into silence, the reporters do little but part around him as he politely excuses himself and sets off with his damnable son.

 

~

 

It can’t get worse, he keeps thinking to himself. It simply can’t get worse.

The public trust in him is thoroughly shaken, though by some small miracle, it hasn’t been enough to set off a vote of no confidence in his leadership. There’s been a non-zero amount of turnover in his cabinet and staff, but he still _has_ a cabinet and staff. But he’s still neck-deep in the worst-case scenario, something he never dreamed would happen in his ten years of careful cover-up and social manipulation.

It can’t get worse.

And then it does.

It’s several months later when the elaborate, extensive interview comes out, filling much of the magazine in which it’s been published. The assistant doesn’t so much as dare linger in the room after dropping it off on his desk, and he supposes he can’t blame him, given he starts seeing red about thirty seconds into reading.

The man interviewed is no longer young, and given he left his prestigious position several years ago, he supposes he no longer qualifies as an upstart, either. But he recognizes him instantly all the same, even without his sculpted hair and fitted suits. He hadn’t even bothered to hide his face or name, as the author of the article outright states that they offered; no, he’d said to them, he wanted Mr. Hawks to know exactly who he was. To _know_ who was taking him down.

He’d told the press everything, no dancing around his name as Dove and Allen and Layton all had. Speaking about their first meeting, those ten years back, and the lengthy list of demands Hawks had put forward. How, all too late, he’d realized his carefully absolving himself of personal responsibility was a red flag; that he must have known, even before the deadly accident, that loss of life was a very real possibility, and yet he’d gone through with it anyway for the sake of profit. How he’d been pressured by both Hawks and the company to cover up the tragedy and avoid a PR scandal. How Hawks had ordered the hit on Professor Layton for the mere crime of investigating his lover’s untimely demise. How, through all his political campaigning and ultimate ascent to Prime Minister, he’d had his past carefully covered up, enforcers at his beck and call, the company that had paid him off helping to keep the incident quiet to save their own skin.

 _Are you worried at all about your own safety?_ The reporter had asked him. _Challenging such powerful figures so directly?_

 _Not at all,_ he’d replied. _No, and do you know why? Because if anything happens to me, now people will know exactly who’s behind it. They can try to silence me, send thugs after me, even have me killed. But all it will do is prove the very truth they’re trying to hide._

Bill tears the magazine into bits with a shout, stomping it into the bin, unwilling to acknowledge that the once-upstart is absolutely right.

 

~

 

After the interview, the vote of no confidence was all but inevitable. Frankly, he’d been surprised it took as long as it did - the members of the House were _afraid_ of him, he gathered, terrified if they said anything he’d send his enforcers after them or their family. But eventually, they’d all spoken to one another and agreed that he couldn’t silence all of them, and so there’d been the vote.

Outwardly, he did his best to accept the ousting with a veneer of grace, although he did slip in, mournfully, a subtle indication or two that he thought the loss of confidence was baseless. Inwardly, he seethed, and understandably so, he thought. He’d _earned_ that position, worked all too hard for it, and by all accounts he should have lasted in it at least until the next scheduled election, if not far beyond it.

But he manages, in the years following. He and Caroline move to a little place out of the heart of the city, closer to the countryside, where it’s mostly older folk who don’t follow the news so much and don’t look at him like some kind of monstrosity. Caroline spends more time off at charity events than at home, avoids being around him if she can at all help it, but frankly, he prefers it that way. (She’d wanted a divorce, seemed legitimately horrified to learn of what he’d allegedly done, but he’d refused to cooperate, and a few reminders of how she’d miss her exorbitant lifestyle eventually convinced her to maintain the bare minimum of their domestic charade.) He keeps up involvement in politics, if primarily through lesser offices or the guise of Caroline’s various charity projects.

He is still wealthy. He is still powerful. But he’d had more, once, and he will never cease to be bitter to those who stole it from him.

(His old enforcers stopped taking work from him; said he was too much of a liability for them. Otherwise, he would have had that once-upstart shot in the streets; would have had the records of Layton’s attack wiped; would have ensured Allen and Dove met their ends in prison under mysterious circumstances; would have had his former investors’ entire company burned to the ground to destroy any record of his involvement. Would have had them all pay for what they did to them. He heard Layton’s brat son had recently been hired by Scotland Yard - how easy would it have been to arrange for a little _accident_ , to send a message to him and his father both?

But, no. He had lost all that power. He had lost it, and every day, he _seethed.)_

 

~

 

There’s a knock at the door.

He glances up from the paperwork he was doing, perplexed. It’s much too late for him to be expecting any visitors, and Caroline’s not due home from her charity event for another few days. But there’s a second knock, louder and more insistent, a deep, unfamiliar voice calling out, “Anyone home?” So he sets his pen down and goes to the front door, peering out the peephole with suspicion.

Indeed, the person on his stoop is a man he hardly knows. Aggressively burly, wide-shouldered and built like a bloody truck; Bill wonders if the local rugby teams had tried to scout him yet. He can’t tell quite how old he is - his air of energy would suggest younger, maybe in his twenties, but between his bulk and his beard and the odd tiredness in his eyes he seems much older than that. Or, in his _eye,_ rather, as the right one is squinted shut.

The man seems to hear him moving behind the door, because he glances up towards the peephole. “Someone there?” He says, reaching into his jacket to fish for something, then holding it up so Bill can see it even through the tiny aperture: a Scotland Yard police badge. His stomach instinctively goes cold until the man continues, “Name’s Justin Lawson; I’m from the MET. There’s been a number of break-ins in the neighborhood as of late, so I’m going around interviewing neighbors to see if anyone’s noticed anything off.”

He’s not here for him, then. Relieved, he unlatched the door and opens it just enough to look the man in the eyes. “Evening, Mr. Lawson,” he says, cool yet amicable, falling back into carrying himself as a politician, saying what people need to hear. “You were saying something about break-ins?”

“Oh, good, you are home,” Lawson says, tucking his badge back in his jacket. “I’m very sorry to bother you so late, sir, but yes, this is the third call we’ve gotten just this week. Do you mind if I come in? It won’t be ten minutes, I just have to run through some of the standard questions, flesh out our investigation some.”

“...very well,” he agrees, though with some reluctance, opening the door wide enough for Lawson to step in. “If it’s for the good of the neighborhood.”

Lawson nods, and politely wipes his shoes on the mat as he enters, glancing about the entryway as Bill locks and shuts the door. “Real nice place you have here, if you don’t mind me saying,” he notes, nodding at the decor. “Most of the folks I’ve interviewed so far have had places that remind me of going to visit my nan, but this? Pretty classy. But more to the point, do you have a missus here? Any children? I’d like to speak with everyone in residence if I can, save us all some time and trouble.”

“It’s just myself and my wife,” he replies, trying not to side-eye the detective too obviously. He doesn’t seem to recognize him as the former PM, and though part of him is relieved, it does strike him as odd. The man doesn’t seem so young that he wouldn’t have been around for at least a portion of his time in office. “She’s been out of town on a business trip the past few days, and won’t be back for another few more, so unfortunately, you’ll have to make do with just me.”

“Makes my job easier, sir,” Lawson responds with a chuckle. Bill motions him to the small seating area just after the entryway, and the man nods in thanks as he takes the closest seat, facing away from the front door and in towards the rest of the house.

“I don’t suppose I should offer you tea?” He says, though he’s already taking the chair opposite Lawson.

“Hardly, sir,” the burly man chuckles. “I don't have the time for that. As said, I’d like to be in and out of your hair as quickly as possible, especially at this time of night.” He reaches into his jacket again, this time pulls out a small notepad and pen. “Now, then, why don’t we get right to it. Can I have your name for the report?”

Bill feels his hackles raise. Perhaps he didn’t recognize him on sight, but his name would certainly be familiar. “Bill,” he replies, evasive.

To his relief, Lawson doesn’t question it, scratching out _BILL_ in a quick, sharp scrawl, followed by noting his home’s address. “Mr. Bill, first and foremost: have you noticed anything odd around your own home in the past week or so? I imagine it’d be only natural to notice something off at your own residence before taking notice of your neighbors’.”

“Quite right,” he agrees, and thinks through the past few days. “...no, no, nothing out of the ordinary. This is a nice, quiet neighborhood for the most part, as I’m sure you’ve already observed. People mind their own for the most part.”

“That they do,” Lawson nods. “I’m sure it’s quite ideal for day-to-day living, but I’ve got to tell you, it’s made sussing out leads a pain. Between how spaced-out the homes are and folks not wanting to stick their nose in anyone’s business, it seems like no one’s so much as realized the break-ins are happening. Frankly, I’d be reluctant to live here, ‘specially as an older fellow, you know? One slip down the stairs, and it might be days before anyone finally thinks to go check in on you.”

Lawson’s words send a chill down his spine, though he can’t quite place why. “...I suppose. Luckily, I’m still rather spry yet. I don’t think a tumble down the stairs is in my very immediate future.”

“Oh, of course. Didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Lawson chuckles. “Ah, sorry for the tangent, there. Suppose it’s all too easy to get mopey and morbid after a few years on the force. Now then, ah…” he turns back to his notepad, but then appears distracted again before he can even ask another question. “...hm. Mr. Bill, forgive my asking, but there’s no chance you used to live in London, is there? I’ve got the oddest feeling I’ve seen you around before.”

 _Blast_ _,_ he’s starting to recognize him. Perhaps he can still salvage this, though; provide _just_ enough information to get him off his back. “I’ve worked in politics much of my life,” he says, an evasive truth. “Perhaps you’ve seen me in one campaign or another.”

“Politics, eh?” Lawson grins, looking more like he’s intrigued by the concept than connecting the dots. Thank goodness the Yard hadn’t sent their best and brightest, he supposes. Then, suddenly, Lawson’s frowning down at his notepad, brow furrowed in thought. “Hm. Politics, eh.”

“Something the matter?” He asks, voice falsely level.

“Well, ah, here’s the thing,” Lawson replies, scratching the back of his neck. “Those three break-ins? Nothing stolen and no one hurt. One of our men proposed maybe the culprit was looking for someone specific, but didn’t know where they lived. I thought that was hogwash, myself, but now - well. If you worked in politics, that makes you a public figure, and that means that theory’s suddenly much more plausible.”

Bill’s blood runs cold. “I— y-you don’t really mean to suggest this- this _criminal_ is out here looking for _me.”_

“It’s only a possibility, but it’s a possibility nonetheless,” Lawson answers, suddenly standing from his chair. “But don’t fret. There’s a phone right there in the entryway, yes? I’ll call in some reinforcements and have them stationed here overnight. If anyone comes by and tries to break in, they’ll catch them before they can do any harm.”

“Well then, hop to it,” he responds curtly, slipping into his old commandeering nature. Luckily Lawson doesn’t take offense, simply moves to the entryway; Bill can hear the click of the rotary followed by low, muffled conversation as he sits there, heart pounding in his ears, the silence of his empty house suddenly suffocating.

“They’ll be here as soon as they can,” Lawson reports as he re-enters the room, expression hard and serious, the textbook image of a man of the law at work. “I’m going to run a quick perimeter check, go through the house and ensure all doors and windows to the outside are locked up tight. You stay right where you are, sir.”

Words fail him, so he simply nods, and Lawson exits once more. Distantly, he can hear his heavy body stomping from room to room, the clicks and creaks of many a lock (so many, _too_ many; he was so certain he’d had the house shut up but now he’s not sure at all).

Still, he thinks. Still. Still, his background has granted him power in this. He’s _important_ _,_ after all, and so the police will jump all over themselves to make sure he’s protected. In this, he is lucky. In this, _something_ is still as it should be.

He hears steps enter the room, and turns, glancing over his shoulder, to hear what Lawson has to report.

There’s a man there holding a pistol.

He lurches up, whirls to face him, instinctively throws his hands in the air. The man, blond and balding and downright skeletal in his build, levels the gun coolly at his person, making slow, small steps forward to match each of Bill’s unsteady steps back. How did he get in here?! Lawson was checking the perimeter. Lawson was locking up all the doors and windows. Lawson _just called for backup,_ for god’s sake—

The steps creak, and he hears Lawson’s voice echoing in the corridor as he walks back downstairs. “All right, Mr. Bill, everything should be locked up now, we just have to wait—” Then he catches sight of the man with the pistol, and Bill is _certain_ he’s saved now, that this burly policeman will draw his own gun and hold this criminal up till the reinforcements arrive—

But he barely starts at the other man. Blinks at him a moment, then sighs, heavy, like this is but a minor annoyance. “Really, Keelan, your timing,” he huffs, “still leaves much to be desired.”

“What? Wanted me to finish the job when you weren’t in the room so you wouldn’t have to see it?” The gunman snorts, amicable, as if he hasn’t been cornered by a bloody _policeman._ “Really, Justin, I would think you’ve seen worse in your line of work than a shooting.”

“I _wanted_ you to slip in after I’d already come back down and started talking with him again. If he’d been distracted, you would have had a nice clean shot and we both could have gotten back in time for a decent night’s sleep, but now, here we are.” He shakes his head, then turns to Bill with a sort of casual, _what can ya do?_ sort of look. “If you could, I’d recommend moving a few steps to the left, off of the carpet. It will be much easier on your dear wife to have the blood cleaned just from the flooring, I imagine, instead of leaving it to stain into all the rugs and furniture.”

Cold panic grips at his throat, keeping him from responding for several moments. “W-what in the _blazes_ do you think you’re on about??” He finally stammers. “Arrest this man!! You’re a policeman, are you not?!”

“I am, Mr. Hawks,” Lawson replies, and Bill’s stomach drops through the floor as it hits him _he never said his last name_ _;_ that this man must have known the whole time and was just _toying_ with him. “I am a policeman, and thus, it is my belief that my duty is to serve justice on those that have done wrong. Even if the higher-ups don’t agree on what constitutes _proper justice,_ because really? I don’t think a mere demotion constitutes appropriate punishment when one has blood on their hands, do you?”

Bill’s mouth goes dry. He stares down the barrel of the other man’s gun.

“Do you know how this happened, Mr. Hawks?” Lawson says amicably as he descends the rest of the stairs, tapping at his squinted-shut eye. “It was a little over a decade ago, now. The mobile fortress attacks. Some of the debris got me right good, and by the time medics got to our neighborhood, it was too late to save the eye. Could have been worse, though - my poor mum certainly had it worse. She protected me, made sure I got out of it with only a bad eye, but she could never walk again after that day. Tough situation for a single mother, don’t you know? And that’s not even getting into what happened to my poor pops.”

He’s on the ground floor, now, circling Bill like a veritable predator, stare gone dark and cold. “He and my mum were just married, living in the same building as some other young couples,” he says. “One day, she goes out to make her doctor’s appointment across town. Finds out she’s pregnant with me. As she’s driving back, turns on the radio, hears a report that a building collapsed and caught fire in their very neighborhood. By the time she made it home, the poor man was already dead. Never even got to know I was gonna exist.”

He meets Bill’s eyes directly, suddenly looking more monster than man. “No one ever got arrested for that whole affair, did they?” He says, chillingly level-voiced. “No, in fact, the guy responsible got paid off for it. Went into politics. Made prime minister. Even when the truth caught up for him, worst he had to pay was leaving 10 Downing. He still had his riches. He still held public offices. He never went to jail. And as a policeman, Mr. Hawks, I’m sure you understand why I feel the need to correct that oversight.”

The house is empty. The neighbors are all too far to hear him if he cries out for help, and even if they weren’t, it’s the dead of night. They’re all probably asleep.

The other man has not lowered his gun.

The door. The front door is near. If he can make it there, maybe, just maybe, they won’t kill him. They want this to be quiet, after all. They can’t kill him in the street without someone taking notice, after all. They can’t kill him. _They can’t kill him._

The gun is pointed at him. He needs to run. He needs to _run._

He bolts for the door.

The first shot catches him clean in the shoulder, and he hits the ground hard with a scream. The bullet _burns_ where it’s entered his body, even more so when he tries and fails to drag his way forward on hands and knees. Already, he can feel hot blood seeping through his jacket, sticking against his back and sides.

“Hate it when they run,” says the shooter, with a little _tsk-tsk_ sort of air, as if he’s merely observing an unruly child. Bill hears him step to his side, feels the heel of his boot dig into his back, ripping another shout from his raw throat. “Didn’t hit anything vital. He’s gonna die real slow this way. Probably wake the neighbors with his caterwauling.”

“Then finish the job, already,” Lawson retorts, utterly undisturbed. “Honestly, what do I even have you around for?”

“Gonna make a mess,” the shooter sighs. He feels metal press up against the base of his skull.

The last thing he hears is the click of the hammer.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr @anonymouspuzzler and on twitter @BigPuzz. I promise most of my content is a lot softer than this.


End file.
